Day In the Life
by goldendiie
Summary: Some Sarge/Fillmore oneshots from my tumblr. Most are humanized.
1. as the sun sets

**as the sun sets**

 _Fillmore dies, and Sarge copes. A rewrite of the deathfic I posted last June._

 _1979_

Fillmore is dying. Sarge knows that much. It's been a month (or maybe two, or three) since he'd been admitted to some hospital in Albuquerque, and five days since they'd stopped letting Sarge into the room. _Not Family,_ the Nurse had said, an apologetic, red lipstick smile plastered on her face. _Bullshit_ , Sarge had replied. Still, she didn't let him in.

He goes to the hospital every day, only to sit in the waiting room and stare at the same point in the wall, anxiously waiting for any news. He thinks, maybe Fillmore will just get up and walk out, completely healed by some miracle that Sarge would never be able to describe. Any second now. Any second…. No. No, that's childish. He gets up, and makes for the door.

As he faces the bustle of the outside world, a part of him wants someone (a nurse? A doctor?) to run up behind him and tell him to stay. _He's been asking for you,_ they'd say, _you can see him now._ He pushes open the door, and walks into the dying sunlight. Nobody calls after him, nobody is completely healed.

He returns the next day, like he always does. The secretary remembers his name.

Sarge watches the people who come through the waiting room. They're here to see sick grandparents, newborn children. Lovers, parents, friends. He begins to fall into space, lost in the cycle of existence that he had come to know. Fillmore is dying. Fillmore could be _dead_ , for all he knows. Maybe they're removing him from his hospital room now, making it all neat and proper for the next dead man to pass through its door-

"You're here for Fillmore, right?"

He snaps out of it, and looks up. He's met with the same careful, sad, red lipstick smile that he'd seen a few days prior. Sarge must look awfully pale, or awfully shocked, because the Nurse quickly says: "You can see him now, if you like." He hardly feels the ground beneath his feet as he follows her deep into the bowels of the hospital.

"He's been begging to see you, you know." the Nurse says cordially, resting a manicured hand on the doorknob of room four-nine-eight. For whatever reason, she pauses before letting him in the room. It's dark, save for the light coming in from the hallway, and that of the quickly setting sun outside. The only sound inside the room is the unceasing _beep, beep, beep_ of the electrocardiograph monitor.

"You have a visitor." The Nurse says quietly, turning on the lights.

Sarge watches in vague, distraught horror as Fillmore sat up and turned his sallow, sunken face to look at him. He certainly _looked_ dead, with empty, glossed-over eyes and too-thin appendages. Yet, a wide, familiar grin split across Fillmore's face as he spoke in a struggling voice: "Hey, man. It's been a while."

Sarge deflated in some strange form of relief as he drifted forward to catch Fillmore's outstretched hand. It felt foreign in his own. Too frail, too cold.

"I'll leave you two to it." The Nurse says, exiting quickly.

Fillmore falls back on his pillows as the door clicks shut behind her. "Dunno why she wouldn't let me see you." He says, "You know, I'd _like_ to see my lover before-"

"She's just following rules." Sarge replies, almost curtly.

"They're stupid rules." Fillmore huffs.

The revolutionary spirit Fillmore had gained during the tail end of the sixties never left him, even on his deathbed. Sarge chuckles weakly. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Why would I change?"

Sarge shrugs as he pulls a chair up next to the bed. He opts to change the subject instead of answering the question: "You look like hell."

"I feel like it, too." Fillmore replies. "They don't let me smoke 'round here, man…."

"That would probably just make it worse." 

"I'm dyin' here, dude, they could at _least_ let me have a smoke before I off myself."

It seemed that Fillmore had grown comfortable with his inevitable demise. Ready to meet the unknown, or ready to find true peace. Whichever. Sarge grows quiet with this thought, now staring down at their clasped hands.

Fillmore clears his throat, somewhat startling him. "I, uh, wanted to ask you something, man." He says. "Like my last wish, or something."

"What's that?"

"Lemme preface with the fact that I _know_ you, Sarge." Fillmore says, "You're stubborn, you're damned sentimental, and-"

"Fillmore." Sarge interrupts. "Get to the point."

"Move on." His voice is clear, strong. "Live your life."

"You can't ask me to-"

"It's all part of life, man. It's gonna happen eventually."

And that was that. Sarge knows that it's no use to argue with him; after all, he's right. In time, he would move on whether he liked it or not. He sighs. "Yeah. Alright."

Fillmore grins and opens his mouth to say something more, but is overtaken by a coughing fit. Sarge dropped his hand and shot to his feet, ready to find help if need be. "Fillmore, are you-"

"I'm fine." Fillmore's hands clutch his chest as he gasped. His voice had become raspy, hollow. "Sit back down, wouldja?"

Sarge did as he was asked. "Sorry, I thought-"

"Don't apologize." Fillmore interrupts. "It happens sometimes."

 _It shouldn't happen_ , Sarge thinks, _This shouldn't be happening to you._

The silence that now consumes the room is pregnant. There's whispers of ideas of what Sarge could say, but he finds he wouldn't be able to verbalize them even if he tried.

Its several minutes until their silence is broken. 

"How're the folks back home?" Fillmore asks. "Any customers?"

"None." Sarge replies. "And they're doing fine. Flo and Ramone said they were gonna stop by tomorrow."

"That'll be nice."

It's difficult to decide whether small talk is a vice or a virtue. In the moment which it matters most, they're unable to talk about anything meaningful. Yet, conversation is better than the bitter silence, filled only by the monitor on Fillmore's heart.

Sarge finds Fillmore's hand again. He squeezes it in some attempt to ease the anxiety he must be feeling. Outside, the sun had begun to set in a fantastic wash of red and orange and periwinkle-blue. The hour had grown late.

"You should get some rest." Sarge said.

"Yeah." Fillmore returned, "Sounds like a good idea."

"I'm gonna stay with you." He said, "In case I leave and they don't let me back in tomorrow."

Fillmore laughed. "See you in the morning, then."

It's so normal, natural, that it feels somewhat like a promise. Morning will come, and Fillmore will still be here, waking up with the rising sun. It isn't long before the sunlight falls off of his face, and he is asleep.

Fillmore looks almost peaceful, if not for the wires and IVs pumping life into him. He didn't belong here, in this sterile, white environment. He belonged at home, in Radiator Springs, playing that obnoxious music and arguing about the moon landing.

The Nurse ushers in once more, long after the sunset was replaced with a sky dotted with stars. "Visiting hours are over." She said, lingering near the doorway for a moment too long.

"Can I stay with him?" Sarge asks. He turns his stinging-tired gaze onto her, Fillmore's hand still clasped between both of his own.

There's a terribly long pause, before she melancholically utters: "Of course."

He returns his gaze to Fillmore, who hadn't stirred. His head is turned towards the ceiling, and he snores quietly. He could tell that he was in pain; every so often his breathing would turn to quiet, strangled gurgling. It never lasted long, though. Fillmore was right. _It happens sometimes._

"You've fought hard." Sarge whispers, and Fillmore's fingers tighten. "But you can't give up. You need to keep-" his voice deteriorates with each word. "You need to keep going."

His words fall on deaf ears. Fillmore's face remains turned towards the ceiling. Sarge sighs and rests his head on the edge of the bed. He closes his eyes, and the night consumes him.

It's not half a moment later, and Sarge is raising his head. He wonders if he's imagining the flatline. It fades in and out of his hearing as Fillmore's grip on his hand loosens. His fingers are thin, he notices. As are his wrists, and arms, and torso. He's too thin. His eyes travel upwards to Fillmore's (thin, sallow, lifeless) face. His mouth is slightly open, and his empty, glossed-over eyes stare, unseeing, at the ceiling. There's color yet in his cheeks.

Sarge lets go of his hand, and it falls limply to the side of the bed. The walls are closing in on him, and the flatline only grows in volume as he reaches for the body in a haze. His hands grip the sheets, and then the thin hospital gown. He tries to speak- some mixture of a question and a plea- but the only sound that escapes him is a strangled moan.

He's painfully aware of the Nurse prying him away from the body. She guides him into the hallway, leading him by the arm, as a doctor rushes in to pronounce the death.

"He's not in pain anymore," the Nurse hushed, "He's in a better place."

Sarge broke away from her and not-quite-ran for the exit, dashing into the lobby and then into the parking lot. Its early morning, almost the time that he play his _Reiville,_ almost the time it would be met with that god-awful rendition of the national anthem-

He slams the door of his jeep and covers his head with his hands, his entire body shaking with silent wails.

. . . .

Fillmore is buried on a wonderfully, painfully sunny day in July. Sarge watches numbly as the plain, matte-black casket is lowered below the desert floor. _He hated black,_ he thought as it's slowly covered up with dirt. Only then did he share in the opinion; it was void of all life and feeling, not at all suitable for someone who had been as vibrant and intrinsic as the sunset over Willy's Butte.

Yet, the sun had surrendered itself all too quickly, and Fillmore died young. _Born 24 April, 1948; Died 29 June, 1979._ He was only thirty-one. Far too young for someone like him, Sarge muses. He'd had a whole life ahead of him, brewing those horrible teas and playing that god-awful music-

"Are you gonna be alright?"

Sarge had lingered too long. He hadn't noticed that the crowd had dispersed, leaving only him to watch the grave. Ramone is standing behind and to the left of him. His voice is concerned, condolatory.

Sarge turns his back to the gravesite. "I'll be fine." He said evenly, brushing the hand away and walking past him.

"You were close to him, man," Ramone said, following closely behind him. "I'm just worried that you're gonna-"

"I'm _fine."_ Sarge insisted.

And that was that. Ramone left him alone, and he continued towards his home in peace. It wasn't the quiet, content peace that he'd grown accustomed to. No, now it's empty, void. Silence is better than conversation.

Sarge doesn't look at Fillmore's dome (nor the "for sale" sign in front of it) as he passes. He looks straight ahead, chin up and shoulders squared. He lets himself inside his shop, and the door quietly clicks shut behind him. He continued towards the back of the shop and through another door, into his living area. It's nothing special- a small kitchen, a sitting area, and a bedroom behind a door off to the side. He stands in the center of it all, aimlessly staring into space.

He needs to clean out Fillmore's dome. Clean out all of the junk that he'd accumulated over the years, determine what he'd keep and what he'd sell. Speaking of selling, he'd need to get rid of the bus, too, now that there was no one to drive it… Sarge decides promptly to stop thinking about it. He re-enters his shop, flicks on the lights, and stalks up and down the rows of military surplus. Backpacks, boots, butterfly knives. His medals-currently pinned to his lapel- are usually in a display case front and center. He keeps them in prime condition, like everything else from his time in Vietnam-

 _He hears gunfire. The surplus shop is gone, replaced by a jungle under a cloudless night sky. He's cowering behind a tree, holding his rifle to his chest. The NVA or Viet-Cong or whatever they were had gotten their hands on an anti-vehicle gun. Five, maybe ten men were dead just past the perimeter line. Phuoc Tuy, that's right, he's in Phuoc Tuy-_

Just like that, it's over. He's back in Radiator Springs, swaying back and forth like he's about to fall over. Sarge supposes a car had backfired, or something had fallen over in another room. _It's just stress, that's all_ , he thinks. That's all it took. Stress, and a loud noise.

He occupies himself and his mind by displacing and replacing items on the shelves. Vaguely, he realizes how silly he must look: he's cleaning his shop in full dress uniform, shoes polished, medals pinned to his suit. He really should go change, but he doesn't. He continues to tidy the shop, over and over again until he can't bring himself to do it anymore.

He collapses on his couch, and falls asleep almost instantly. He dreams of gunfire and Fillmore's sallow, sunken face.

The next day is just like any other: Sarge wakes in the early hours of the morning, head pressed uncomfortably into the arm of the couch, staring through the slats in the blinds as the new day rises. As he forces himself to get up, he notices the new creases in his suit. He'd have to iron it sooner or later.

Sarge's routine is slow and grueling- or, rather, it had _become_ slow and grueling. He leaves his suit in a heap on the floor, showers with cold water, and dresses once again. A passing glance in the mirror tells him how god-awful he looks: his features are tired and gaunt, complete with heavy bags under his eyes and a thin frown etched into his face.

He looks somewhere between dying and dead; a little like Fillmore before he'd passed. Vaguely, he imagines himself in Fillmore's place, frail and weak while nurses and doctors prodded at him with needles and tubes. Surely, he would put up a fight, yet it would be all for naught. Inevitably, he would die. The image fades back into that of Fillmore, coughing himself into a sleep from which he would never wake. He _hadn't_ gone peacefully, Sarge realizes. His eyes were open upon his death.

The thought had shocked him into a stupor. He stands, like a fool, staring at his own wide-eyed reflection in the mirror. He shakes his head, as if to rattle his realization away, and continues on with his day.

. . . .

It's early October before Sarge had grown numb enough to finally clean out Fillmore's dome. No one ever bought the lot- it was practically useless, since traffic on the road had long since ceased- but cleaning it out still seemed to be a worthwhile idea. Fillmore would have wanted his stuff to be given away, anyways.

The once-colorful interior of the dome was covered in a thick layer of dust. It had been months since anyone had inhabited it, making the haphazard placement of personal items seem like an exhibit out of a museum: the kitchen still has pots in the sink, the bedsheets are still disheveled, and the needle of a record player is still in the grooves of an LP. There's no good place to start in all of the mess. After all, how is one supposed to go about sorting through someone's life? There must be an established method, a routine he could follow….

He opts to start with the records. That's easy, right? They're neatly packed into crates beneath a wooden stand, on top of which sat a poorly-aged Achiphon. There's an old ten-inch single under the needle, and Sarge somehow recognizes it, despite how long it had been since he'd seen it. How many times had Fillmore played it for him? Ten? Twenty?

Sarge replaces the needle at the start of the LP, and switches the record player on. It pops with the dust and grime it had gathered over the past few months, before finally crackling to life. There's drums as a guitar settles down into a melody, and a great diminuendo is met with Jimi Hendrix's vocals. _"Waterfall, nothing can harm me at all…"_ The music settles into every corner of the dome. Sarge had hated this song back in the day, but now it somehow relaxes him. Fillmore wouldn't have let him hear the end of it, if he were still around. _"My worries seem so very small, with my waterfall…."_

He takes in the dome in one sweeping glance, now realizing that he doesn't fully want to disrupt it. It's as though he's erasing Fillmore's last remaining presence off of the earth, truly killing him once and for all.

That's entirely irrational, though. He flicks through the rest of the vinyls (Hendrix, The Kinks, Donovan, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane), and sets them to the side. He thinks he might sell them. Someone else could get better use out of them.

Sarge moves along, looking for something else to look through. He turns next to the boxes of clothes that are pushed underneath the bed. Most of his shirts are garishly tie-dyed, and most of his pants have holes in them. Surprisingly, Sarge even finds a few of his own items of clothing, evidently left here throughout the years. He moves the boxes next to the crates of vinyls, designating it as things he would get rid of.

He moves on to a bookshelf at the foot of the bed. It's packed with old, torn-up volumes. There's old college textbooks, fantasy, science fiction, and…. The dome is suddenly quiet as Sarge pulls an unmarked book from the shelf. He'd been working so quickly, so efficiently, that he hadn't realized the song had ended. He opens the book, only to find that it _wasn't_ a book, but a photo album. Sarge flicks through it absentmindedly. Photos of people, places he didn't recognize. Perhaps they were some old college buddies, or some fellow hippies he'd run into in his travels-

Sarge stops, mid-page turn. There's a Polaroid stuffed between the pages like a bookmark. With one steady hand, he removes it from the book and stares at it. He doesn't remember letting Fillmore take a photo of them together, yet in his hand he held evidence that proved otherwise. The photo is at such an awkward angle that it was obvious Fillmore himself was the one holding the camera. Half of his face was visible: half of a crooked grin, half of a newly-grown beard, half of a nose, one eye. Sarge wasn't looking at the camera when the photo was taken, instead looking out over some unseen distance. His head rested on the edge of Fillmore's shoulder, like their closeness was the most natural thing in the world. On the white border of the photograph, scrawled in round, looping handwriting, was a date: _August,_ _1967_.

That had only been a few months after they'd met. He remembers that they- the hippies and the press and whatnot- had called it "The Summer of Love," and he never really understood why. Such a strange name, when there was a war in Vietnam and protests in the streets… Sarge's nostalgia was fleeting, and quickly left him feeling empty. In a fit of sentimental longing, he finds himself wishing to live it all again. To find himself in Radiator Springs again, to meet Fillmore again, to fall violently, fitfully in love again. They had wasted their time together, ignorant of the fact that it would be cut short.

Sarge realizes that he had been staring off into space. He stands, dusts himself off, and pockets the photograph. He sets the photo album aside, and stacks the rest of the books next to the pile of items to be sold. He puts the needle at the start of the LP again, and loses himself as he continues to work.

 _Waterfall, nothing can harm me at all…_

. . . .

Sarge finally decides to visit the grave in November. It's colder than it had been all week, and the temperature was dropping by the hour; he'd grown so used to the heat that anything lower than sixty degrees felt like winter. With his hands balled in his pockets, he sets off into the desert. He reaches the gravestone as the sun is beginning to set. He stares at it for a moment, coming to grips that he was standing above the body of his closest confidante.

Sarge isn't sure why, but he begins to speak. "Hello, Fillmore. It's been a while."

Half of him expects a reply- a _"hey, man_ ," or something like that- but the only sound is the wind, and the distant echo of interstate traffic.

"It's quieter, without you." He continues, "No one around to argue with."

Dead, incomplete silence.

"I miss you." Sarge blurts out, "I really do. And the time we had together was…." He trailed off, not exactly sure how to say it. "Well, it was just great."

If Fillmore was listening, he would be grinning from ear to ear. Sarge knows that much.

He feels that he should keep talking, fill the quiet with _something_. Conversation is better than bitter, mourning silence, even if it's only one-sided. However, he doesn't speak as he kneels down, and scrapes the dirt from the lettering. _Born 24 April, 1948; Died 29 June, 1979._ Only thirty-one years old. A life as vibrant and intrinsic and fleeting as the sunset over Willy's Butte. Sarge stands again, and wipes the dirt from his pants. He watches the grave for a moment, now aware of a tremendous weight that had been lifted from his shoulders.

There is nothing more to do, no more words that could be spoken. Fillmore is dead, and he must continue to go forward into the future. How had he put it? _Move on. Live your life._ Sarge gives the headstone one last, lingering glance as he turns away. _It's all part of life, man. It's gonna happen eventually._

"Goodbye, Fillmore."

As he leaves, the sky is a wonderful wash of red and orange and periwinkle-blue.

. . . .

 _It feels like forever since I've posted anything on here! It's good to be back on this shitty old website._

 _I just wanted to let y'all know the purpose of making this series: a while ago, I got an anon on Tumblr asking me to put some of my fanfic on here so it could reach a wider audience. I contemplated the idea for a while—I hadn't been too proud of my Tumblr oneshots, so I wasn't completely sold at first— and I eventually decided to go ahead and do it. I won't be posting every fic I write for Tumblr (believe me when I say that most of them are awful), I'll just be posting the one's I'm happy with. And, lo and behold, I'm really happy with this one!_

 _I plan to update this every month as long as I'm able. Ratings probably won't exceed a T._

 _Thanks for reading!_


	2. in the morning

**in the morning**

 _Rewrite of Viva Indifference, my first Sargemore fic._

The first time it happened, Sarge had been terrified. He remembers seeing the geodome's ceiling above him instead of his own roof, and he lost his mind to a hurricane of legality and rules. _Someone's going to find out we've been together,_ he'd said, tripping around in the dark to find his clothes.

That was two years ago. Sarge has since realized that Fillmore's bed is more comfortable than his own, and it's much nicer to wake up with him rather than without. It's perfectly, terribly domestic.

He rolls over to look at Fillmore, who sleeps soundly in the spot next to his. His long, tangled hair surrounds his head like a halo, and his bare arms are knotted in the blankets. He looks so calm, so serene, so deeply asleep that not even the third world war would wake him. Yet, when Sarge kisses the corner of his mouth, he sighs and turns his head to look at him.

"I'm dreaming," he hums. His eyes are still closed, and his voice is still gripped by sleep.

Sarge replies, "Is it a good dream?"

Fillmore's eyes open, but only a little bit. He smiles slightly. "Yeah. It's a good dream."

They're like that for a while, basking in the glow of the new day, enjoying each other's early morning company. Fillmore looks as though he is glowing, smiling as though he had just witnessed a miracle. It's perfect… But it isn't long until Sarge remembers: "I have to get going."

He shifts to leave, but Fillmore holds him in place. "You don't _have_ to do anything" He says, pulling Sarge back into his arms. "Nobody would care either way."

"Fillmore, you _know_ what'll happen if someone finds out."

Fillmore laughs. It's short and barking and maybe even bitter.

"What?" Sarge asks.

"You worry too much. And that's totally bad for your health, man." Fillmore replies, smiling slightly. "And besides, I think that's illegal now."

Sarge pries himself away and sits up, looking down on him. Fillmore's big brown eyes stare back at him, so full of love and naivety that he can hardly believe it's real. For a moment, he's almost convinced.

"We aren't careful enough." Sarge finally says, throwing the pile of blankets off of him. "Someone's going to find out eventually. We both know that."

He moves to stand, but Fillmore's hand falls on his own, halting him momentarily. It's a song and dance well known to them both, but the melody has grown tired and disinclined with each repetition.

"Sarge." Fillmore says, voice thick with sincerity. "Stay for a bit. Just this once."

For a moment, Sarge considers it. What's the harm? He reasons, tossing the idea back and forth in his mind like a baseball. Instead, he shakes his head. "It's too risky." He stands, and collects his pants from the end of the bed. "What if we go back to sleep, and then–"

"We don't have to sleep, huh-huh–"

"This is serious!" Sarge turns around to face him.

"No, it's not." Fillmore challenges. "You're worried over nothing, man."

"Everyone saw us leave Flo's together!"

"We always leave Flo's together."

Sarge sputtered, searching for some kind of retort. "They might still suspect something. You never know."

"Why would they?" Fillmore smiles slightly, "And even if they did, Sheriff's a good dude, he'd never-"

"You might think that now," Sarge turns, and opens the drawer of Fillmore's dresser. "But wait until we get caught…" He rummages through his shirts for something halfway decent, and finally settles on an old tie-dyed shirt.

"He wouldn't do anything." Fillmore insisted, "If anything, he'd probably let us get married."

Sarge casts him a glare, and pulls the shirt over his head. "I doubt that," he says, closing the drawer.

Fillmore groans. "Come on, Sarge," he pleads, "Just this once?"

"The answer's _no,_ Fillmore."

"It's not gonna hurt anything!" Fillmore says, "Listen, how about another hour? I dunno when we're gonna get another opportunity like this."

Sarge looks at him for a moment. He's practically begging at this point… "Fine." He concedes, "Just an hour, though."

The minute he gets back in bed, Fillmore pulls him back under the covers and kisses him. Never before had he been so happy to accept defeat.

. . . . 

_YIKES sorry I didn't post anything in March. I don't really have a good excuse, besides the fact that I was busy. I don't know if there will be a post next month either, because AP testing is in a few weeks, and I really have to start studying… And besides that, I need to finish up the Third Blink before spending any more time on oneshots! I gotta get my ass in gear, folks. Anyways, hope everyone's having a good day! See you all whenever I have enough time to write something new!_


	3. wouldn't it be nice

**Part 1**

"Would you marry me?"

It's one of those nights where everything seems hazy, drowned in an orange plume of smoke that wraps around anything and everything like a thick fog… At first, Sarge thinks he imagined the statement. He'd been dozing for the past twenty-some minutes, maybe it had come to him in a half-dream.

Fillmore shifts to face him, holding himself up by his elbows. His face is inches away, and for a minute, Sarge thinks he could kiss him.

"Did you hear me?" Fillmore asks, gazing down at him. "I asked if you would marry me."

Sarge sighs, and lets his hand rest on the side of Fillmore's face. "Of course I'd marry you, but you know the laws-"

"The laws don't matter." Fillmore insists, "Let's do it, right now."

Everything is a revolution. Sarge insists, _"_ Fillmore, we _can't."_

"We can." Fillmore says, "Look-Give me your hand."

Sarge offers his left hand, and Fillmore clasps it in his own. "Sarge. Do you take me to be your unlawfully wedded husband?"

Sarge chuckles. "Sure."

"Have you ever been to a wedding?" Fillmore asks. "You gotta say _I do._ "

"I hardly think this counts as a wedding," Sarge counters. "We don't even have rings. Or a witness, for that matter."

Fillmore took a ring from his own hand- a simple gold-colored band with a bright red gemstone- and slipped it onto Sarge's ring finger.

"There's your ring." Fillmore says satisfactorily. "Please say _I do."_

Sarge couldn't help but giggle; seeing the ring on his finger was certainly strange. He looked at it for a moment, trying to decide whether or not this whole situation was serious.

"Come on, Sarge, are you marrying me or not?"

"Alright, alright, fine. I do." Sarge finally said, "Do you take me to be your-uh-"

"I do." Fillmore interrupted. He was quiet for a moment, as though he'd just realized what had happened. He finally finished: "May I kiss the groom?"

"You may."

They met not a moment later, kissing sweetly and finding themselves _married_.


	4. going home

**going home.**

Rewrite of "renewer."

. . . .

Sarge leaves on a hazy Sunday morning. It's windy, and the sun is just beginning to rise. His trailer is packed with what little sentiments he has: old photographs, his medals, a few moldy vinyl records. The bunker sits empty, a gray ink blot against the orange desert.

"You know," Fillmore says, peering through the fence that divides their yards, "You don't _have_ to leave. I said you could stay with me for a while."

"And I said no," Sarge replies. "I'll be fine on my own."

"That's not it, man. I- we don't want you to leave."

Sarge looks at him. He looks tired, almost mournful; Fillmore's heavy eyes meet his, and they seem to understand each other, just for a moment. "I… I can't stay. You know I can't."

Fillmore doesn't reply, but drives down to Flo's with him anyways. For an isolated moment, everything seems normal. Mater is laughing about some unmentioned prank, Luigi is rambling about his new shipment of whitewalls, and Doc sits broodingly in the opposite corner of the lot.

Sally is the one to shatter the normalcy, sliding an unwrapped cardboard box towards him. "We, erm… Got you a going-away gift." she says. "It isn't much, but I think… I think it was appropriate."

A brand-new Nokia 6280 cellphone.

He stays for as long as he can, trying to draw out the moments so they might last an eternity. There comes a moment, however, when he's abruptly brought back into reality, and he forces himself to bid his farewells.

Sarge leaves. There's nothing else to it. He starts down Route 66, somehow finding it in himself to not look back. He knows they're still watching him. He knows they'll stay until he disappears over the horizon. As he passes the sign marking the border of the town, his soul feels heavy.

He finds himself in Texas not two days later, staying at a little rest stop off of the interstate. Homesickness rests in his engine, behind his eyes, in his wheels. His entire being feels heavy, and he can't muster the will to travel any further that night. He settles into a shabby motel a few miles away. It had aged poorly; the carpet is moldy, the walls are torn to shreds, and the television only seems to play porn movies.

The nokia glares at him from across the room. _You're alone,_ it seems to say, _But you don't have to be._

He snatches it off the table and dials the first number that comes to mind. _"Fillmore's Taste-In, what's cookin?"_ the familiar voice drawls. Sarge hangs up immediately, drawing in a few slow, panicked breaths. It hurt. Hearing Fillmore, hearing Radiator Springs…

He redials the number, and waits.

" _Fillmore's Taste-In."_ the voice repeats, _"If this is the same guy from a few minutes ago-"_

"Fillmore, it's me."

" _Oh. Hey, man."_ Fillmore seems to perk up, sounding somewhat happier. _"Where are you?"_

"Texas."

" _How is it?"_

"It's…" Sarge doesn't know how to respond. It's nice enough, in some respects, but… It's not home.

Fillmore seems to sense his mood. _"You doin' alright?"_

"Yeah. Fine." Sarge says. "I'm- erm- I'm just tired."

Fillmore hums disbelievingly. _"You can come back,"_ he implores comfortingly, _"Nothing's keeping you away from here, besides your own choice."_

"It's too late."

" _It's not too late. It'll never be too late."_ Fillmore sighs, sounding almost exhausted. _"You always have a home here. Remember that."_

The line goes quiet. Sarge has nothing to say, and it seems Fillmore has nothing more to add. Besides, of course…

" _I miss you."_ He says, and follows with hoarse laughter. _"Damn, I never thought I'd-"_

"Never thought I would, either." Sarge is smiling to himself, staring at the wall in front of him. His mind, though foggy, is filled with irrelevant memories of petty arguments and Jimi Hendrix's national anthem.

It's quiet again, but this time it's consumed by memory rather than the end of a conversation.

" _I better go."_ Fillmore says, sighing. _"We, uh… We're opening tomorrow, I think."_

"Opening?" Sarge questions. Radiator Springs, as a collective, rarely opened. "Why's that?"

" _Dunno. Sally has a feeling that something's going to happen."_

"I wouldn't believe her. She's had the same feeling in the past, and nothing's happened."

" _Yeah, well. We're opening."_

They try to talk a little while longer, but it seems there's nothing else to say. They bid each other goodnight, leaving Sarge to force himself to sleep amongst the roaches crawling on the walls.

The next morning, Sarge makes an effort to find a channel that played the news. He flicked through, bad porno after bad porno, before finally landing on some low-budget local news station.

" _Lightning McQueen, racecar, has been reported missing by the Los Angeles police department…."_

He half-listened as he re-packed his trailer, uninterested. Something about the nationwide search, something about the truck driver being a suspect. _Please report any information you have to your local authorities._

His phone starts ringing almost immediately after the anchor finished her speil. He answers quickly, slightly shocked to hear Fillmore's panicked voice. _"You'll never believe it, man."_

"What? Never believe what?" Sarge asks, concerned.

" _The road, man, it's the-"_ Fillmore interrupts himself, and muffled shouts can be heard in the background, _"I'll call you back, man. Traffic court this morning. Doc's pissed, dude."_

"What? Why?!" Sarge almost shouts into the phone, somewhat scared that something catastrophic happened. "Fillmore, please-"

The line went dead. Sarge threw down the phone, frustrated. What had been the point of that?

He checks out of the motel and continues on, forcing himself along the beaten path ahead of him. He's halfway through Oklahoma when he takes a break at a shiny new rest stop.

Sarge halfway through a can of oil when he gets another call. He answers it, hoping it's Fillmore, but is equally surprised to hear Sheriff's exasperated voice. _"Sarge. You need to come back."_

"What happened?" Sarge asks, hoping to whatever deity there was that Sheriff had some answers. "Fillmore called me earlier, but didn't-"

" _Some kid came speeding in last night, tore up the town."_ There's a few shouts in the background, but Sheriff seems to disregard them. _"We're making him fix it, but… He's a handful, if you know what I'm saying."_

" _Oh_ …" Sarge replies, recalling what little Fillmore had said about the road. "Is it bad?"

" _Well uh… yes."_ Sarge can almost hear Sheriff nodding to himself. _"Have you watched the news lately? He looks like that racecar kid who went missing. Stickers and everything."_

"Sheriff, have you considered that it's the same person?"

Sheriff goes quiet, and Sarge can almost hear the gears turning in his brain. _"I'll call you back,"_ he says shortly, before abruptly hanging up the phone.

Sarge finds himself conflicted after that, not knowing exactly what to do. So far, he'd gotten two calls asking him to come back… and besides that, the town was at the center of a national missing person's case. Maybe he should have waited another week before leaving, or not left at all…

He waits for a day. No calls, no messages… no nothing.

So, Sarge continues on. He makes surprisingly good progress that day, finding himself a hotel room somewhere in Missouri. It's cleaner than the last one… but not by much. He sleeps soundly that night, until the phone began to ring. He answers it, offering not much beyond an annoyed _"What?_ "

Fillmore's voice shocks him out of his weariness: " _Man you won't believe it, that Lighting kid, he's-"_

"Fillmore, slow down." Sarge sighs, "It's past midnight, this better be good-"

" _He's in_ love _with Sally, man!"_ Fillmore cries, sounding somewhere between elated and scared.

"Who is?"

" _The kid! You know- that racecar, the one that's on TV all the time?"_

"He's still there?"

" _He's finishing the road."_ Fillmore huffs, _"But that's not important- what's important is that-"_

Sarge groans aloud, completely exasperated. "Fillmore, this is a nationwide search! Do you realize how much trouble you all are going to get into?!"

" _Sheriff knows what he's doing."_ Fillmore replies quickly, _"Anyways, man- what's important is that there's a chance he might stay here-"_

"You're not telling me you _want_ him to stay?"

" _Well, wouldn't you?"_

"Absolutely not. He's a menace."

" _You haven't met him, yet… he's really not that bad."_ Fillmore says, _"But you get it, right, Sarge? If he stays, then maybe… Maybe the customers will come back."_

Sarge feels his heart sink. Something about that… It didn't seem likely. "Fillmore, you know that's irrational-"

" _I know."_ Fillmore sighs. _"I just… What if someone else leaves? I mean, you're already gone… And I heard Luigi and Guido talking about how they couldn't go on like this anymore…"_

"Seriously?"

" _Yeah man, it's, uh… it's pretty heavy."_

Neither of them say anything, and the line goes quiet. Sarge had never thought that his actions would create waves, and yet… Guido and Luigi couldn't be serious about that, they'd never-

" _Come home."_ Fillmore says, disrupting his train of thought. " _Just… Just come home, Sarge. Stay with me for a few weeks while you get back on your tires, or- maybe Sally would let you stay at the motel while you re-open, or maybe you could bunk up with Sheriff or-."_

"Fillmore." Sarge says softly, calmly. "I can't."

" _Well, what's stopping you?!"_ Fillmore cries, _"Nobody's gonna charge you anything, man, and it doesn't even matter if you re-open anyways! Get the stick out of your tailpipe and come back!"_

Sarge sighs. He wants to, he really, really does… but he just doesn't see any point in staying if he doesn't have his shop. Though, maybe…

"I will," Sarge says, "If that Lightning kid stays in town."

Fillmore falls silent, as though he wasn't expecting that. _"You… You mean it?"_

Sarge grits his teeth, and utters, "Yes, I mean it."

He wishes the words were meaningful, that he would actually follow through with the promise, but the odds of Lightning staying in town were near nonexistent. He'd only said it to comfort Fillmore, who was most definitely grinning from ear to ear by now.

" _Awesome, man."_ Fillmore says, happiness shining through his voice. _"I'll, uh… let you know about that. If he stays, or whatever."_

"Thank you." Sarge says, "Now, uh… if you don't mind, I'd like to go back to sleep?"

Fillmore gasps, as though he'd just remembered the time. _"Yeah! Yeah, uh… Sorry, man."_

"That's alright." Sarge replies, "Erm… goodnight, Fillmore."

" _Night, Sarge. See you soon."_

Fillmore hangs up first, and Sarge throws the phone down on the nightstand. He didn't like the unhappiness that rested behind his eyes, nor did he like having to lie about what would happen. He doesn't fall back to sleep for another hour, and even then it's restless.

The next morning, he debates whether or not to keep going. Against the odds, he really hoped that Lightning would stay in town. He'd be able to go _home_ , Chrysler's sake, and he'd be able to re-open his shop and everything would continue like nothing ever happened. So, he waits for the call, pacing back and forth around his hotel room to pass the time, occasionally flicking through channel after channel of Lightning McQueen's case.

After another night of restless sleep, Sarge continues to keep going. The midwest is hollow and flat and overwhelmingly green… it makes the homesickness worse. It's the opposite of New Mexico, and he absolutely hates it. He stops a few hours outside of Springfield, finding a somewhat-decent hotel to spend the night in. He wasn't counting on any more calls, at least for the time being.

That evening, he decides to look through his old photographs. It does nothing for him, besides make his homesickness worse. So, he moves to the television, flicking through the channels to find something to watch.

A baby-pink painted newscaster grins happily at the camera as she states her hook: _"Earlier this evening, an anonymous tip was sent to the Los Angeles police department stating the location of missing person Lightning McQueen…"_

Sarge's eyes glaze over as he watches the rest of the report. It flicks from the newscaster to a top-down helicopter shot of the town, and from that to a shaking video of McQueen being herded into the back of the trailer. He looked scared, confused… and completely reluctant to leave.

He switches the television set off, and stares at his reflection in the black screen for a long while. It seemed he really _wouldn't_ be going home, despite what he had hoped. Above anything else, he felt like a fool for believing in that silver lining.

Sarge doesn't sleep that night. He gets back on the road, and continues to drive east. He's in Chicago by morning, and after that he heads towards Indianapolis. He would not stop, not for anything.

Three days later, he finds himself in Columbus. He'd slept very little, and hadn't so much as looked at his cellphone in the time that it took him to get there. He turns it on, and finds he has just around thirteen missed calls. He's just about to dial back, when he gets another one.

"Hello?"

" _Hey, I'm looking for a mister, uh… Sarge?"_

The voice is that of a young man, maybe southern. He sounds unsure, and maybe a bit scared.

Sarge is terribly confused as he replies, "Erm… This is him."

" _The, uh, folks down here in Radiator Springs really want you to come back. They say you can open up your, erm… Military…. Store?"_

There's a bit of a scuffle on the other end, and an older woman replaces the young man. _"Sorry about him, Sarge, he's a bit jittery."_

"Flo? Who was that?"

" _Just Lightning. You wouldn't believe how much he likes it here! And my, he's smitten with Sally!"_

"Wait, you don't mean Lightning _McQueen?_ The missing kid?"

" _That's him. He fixed the road, and he did a very good job of it."_

"Well I'll be damned."

Flo hums in affirmation, before: _"You really should come back. Your shop will take off in no time, especially since there's gonna be more traffic."_

"More traffic?"

" _You haven't heard? Lighting said it would be on the news…"_ Flo trails off, and continues, _"He and Doc are opening a racing museum, right here in Radiator Springs!"_

"A racing museum," Sarge repeats, grinning out of something like disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"

" _Oh, stop that."_ Flo says, and Sarge imagines her snapping a bar towel at him. _"Drive safe, alright? I expect you'll be back in town within the next week or two…"_

"Hold on, I never said-"

" _You made a promise, Sarge. And you better follow through with it."_

Sarge falls silent. Fillmore must've told her… "Yeah, erm… alright," he says, "I'll see you soon, then."

" _Alright,"_ Flo replies, _"Goodbye, then."_

"Goodbye."

Sarge hangs up the phone, and immediately tries to wake himself up. This has to be a dream, there's no way it's real…But it is. This is real life, the call had not been a dream. Radiator Springs, his beloved town, is back on the map.

He makes it home in record time, sleeping very little and driving as quickly as he legally could. It's five days, and he's back in town, puttering down Route 66 behind lines of traffic, the likes of which he hadn't seen in forty years. The first thing Sarge sees when he crosses into town is Fillmore's floral-painted, glowingly joyous face as he's pulled off the street and into the Taste-In's lot.

"You're back, man!" Fillmore cries, pulling him into a hug, "You're actually back!"

Sarge pats Fillmore's side with one of his tires, squirming to get out of it. "You didn't think I'd follow through?"

"Well, I mean…" Fillmore pulls away, looking somewhat bashful. "You didn't seem exactly serious about it."

"I didn't think he'd stay." Sarge replies, "And, I'm sorry, I really shouldn't have left in the first place-"

"It's alright, man. I, uh… I understand." Fillmore offers an easy smile. "Hey, whaddya say to a can of oil at Flo's? I'll buy."

Sarge lets Fillmore lead him down the street to the diner, which is wonderfully full of customers. Flo herself looks incredibly happy to be working again, serving up whatever she had to willing buyers. "Well, look who's back!" She says, grinning as she met his eye.

"What?" Lizzie says from one corner, "Did he go overseas again?"

Sarge pulls into his usual spot, Fillmore beside him. It's nice to catch up with everyone, see what had happened in the days he'd been gone. Ramone had repainted himself to a bold shade of red, Mater was happier than ever… and the town had gained a new resident.

Lightning McQueen, former missing person, arrives at Flo's not ten minutes after Sarge and Fillmore did. He's an even brighter red than Ramone, body dotted with stickers and oh-so-fitting lightning bolts.

"Hey Flo!" Lightning calls, "Anything I could do to help?"

"Not at the moment," Flo replies, offering a smile, "Thank you, though!"

Lightning returns the grin, and moves around the diner, chatting easily with everyone as though he'd lived in town for years. He shares a few jokes with Mater, talks lightly with Lizzie about getting a brand-new shipment of bumper stickers for her shop, and approaches Fillmore with that same, easygoing grin on his face.

"Heya, Fillmore, shakin' up anything new?"

"Nothing, my friend." Fillmore replied.

"Let me know if you need anything, alright?" Lightning said, "I can order some fresh fruit for you-"

"It's all good, man," Fillmore said, "Stuff's got chemicals in it now, y'know?"

"Oh, right." Lighting nods along with his statement, "No fresh fruit then."

"Thanks anyways, man. I totally dig the sentiment."

"No problem."

Lightning almost moves on, but stops midway through. "I don't think I've seen you around before," he said to Sarge, "You're a friend of Fillmore's?"

"Something like that." Sarge replied.

"I'm Lightning," He offers.

"Sarge."

Lightning's eyes go wide. " _Surplus hut_ Sarge?"

"Uh. Yes."

"Welcome back!" Lightning says, "I bought your land, so… You can move back in whenever."

Sarge nearly passes out. "I, erm… I can't take that."

"No, I insist," Lightning said, "I'm gifting it back to you."

"I, uh…" Sarge is completely speechless, not knowing how to react or what to say. "I can't thank you enough."

"No need," Lightning insisted, "Happy to help."

He offers that same trademark smile, and proceeds across the street to Luigi's.

"He's been doing that a lot lately," Fillmore remarks, "Y'know, like trying to help out around town. I told him about how you left, and… he straight up bought the place, said he'd give it over to you once you came back."

"It's admirable of him." Sarge replies.

Fillmore agreed, and they proceed to fall into that comfortable silence that had permeated the last forty years spent in town. When Sarge returns home that night, back into the comfortable walls of his shop, he's content. His shelves are empty and dusty, the register is void of any cash, and the yard outside is in a state of disaster, but… he's content.


	5. for what it's worth

**Anon asked: au where sarge is a hippie and fillmore is a vet**

 **y'all already know i'm gonna write my doctoral thesis on the counterculture, i'm allowed to poke fun and drag the absolute shit out of it**

. . . .

Abbie Hoffman says the Pentagon is going to levitate. Load of horseshit, if you ask Sarge. Those Youth International fucks don't know what they're talking about, anyways. Neither do the Diggers, but that's another story… Point is, October 21st was supposed to be a riot. And it was, in a sense… until the Abbie Hoffman decided to make it a joke. _The Pentagon will rise three hundred feet in the air, shake violently, and subsequently end the war in Vietnam._ Horseshit. That man is too radical for his own good.

Though, maybe there's no right way to direct a riot. The people show up with their picket signs and their badges and their chants, and the organizers can do nothing but sit back and watch it unfold. Sarge certainly isn't about to grab a bullhorn and take charge, no sir… that would put a target on his back. He much prefers to meld away into the mass of shouting voices, where his own can go mostly unheard.

Somehow, he finds himself at the front of the crowd. Leader of the masses, picket sign in the air in the name of world peace. The MP in front of him looks young, almost cowering behind his riot gear. "What's your name, soldier?" Sarge shouts over the noise. The MP shakes his head, eyes wide behind his visor, and thrusts his rifle out.

"D'you believe in what you're fighting for?!" Sarge yells. "Or are you here because the big man in the white house told you to be?"

The MP stares at him, which he takes to mean the latter. "Join us!" he shouts. "Come on, Join us!"

Sarge reaches out, hand open in a gesture of comradery. His fellow activists-longhairs, hippies, whatever they were-cried out in anguished unison against the state: _Hell no, we won't go! Hell no, we won't go! Hell no, we won't go! Hell no, we won't-_ In a brief, unbelievable moment, the MP reaches back.

He blinks in disbelief, before attempting to pull him into the crowd. The other MPs-presumably more hardass than the one that stood before him now-pull the defector back, shouting at him to stay away. Sarge reaches for him again, fingertips nearly brushing against him, before he's punched squarely in the face. He reels back, rubbing his jaw.

He feels the anger and outrage coursing through him as he drops his picket sign and lunges, attacking the other MPs with whatever he had. Passing activists gather around to watch, some attempting to pull him away, but all is futile… He ends up in cuffs, and finds himself herded like cattle into the back of a police cruiser with two others.

"You really had to do that, huh?" one of them mutters. She's probably in her mid-teens, with long, shaggy hair and disapproving green eyes.

"He attacked me," Sarge replies. "I can sue for that, right?"

"No way, man, you'd lose," the other says. He blows a strand of his long, black hair out of his eyes. "Who are you with, anyways? That new radical group? _Zippie_ , or whatever?"

"SDS," Sarge replies. "The fuck is _Zippie?_ "

"It's _Yippie,"_ the woman groans.

"No, that doesn't sound right," the man argues. " _Zippie_ is totally what it's called, man."

"Shut up back there!" The officer in the driver's seat slams his fist on the steering wheel.

They're carted off to a police station five or six miles away, where they're thrown unceremoniously into a holding cell. The woman sits down against one wall, glaring at him. "This is your fault, you know," she says, crossing her arms indignantly.

"You didn't have to get involved," Sarge replies. "You could have kept marching."

She huffs. "Whatever, man."

Sarge shakes his head and turns away, moving to lean against the opposite wall.

"You look a little old to be SDS, you know that?" the man says, half-turning towards him from the center of the room. "You sure you're in college?"

"I graduate next year," Sarge replies.

The man hums a little, before saying, "You know, I dropped out of college. Didn't really seem to be my thing, you know?" He turns towards the woman. "What about you? How old are you, anyways?"

"Old enough," she replies shortly. "Doesn't matter, anyways. We have a revolution to fight in."

"A revolution?" Sarge questions.

"Yeah, man. A revolution." She nods, more to herself than anything else. "We're gonna rise up, and things are gonna change, man. Though, maybe they'd change a little _quicker_ if this country wasn't run by a bunch of _pigs!"_ Her voice crescendos with each word, until she's crying out, "You hear that?! A bunch of _goddamn pigs!"_

"Calm down, for Christ's sake!" the man cries. He runs a shaky hand through his hair, and slumps against another wall.

"Let me guess," Sarge says cooly. "New York?"

Her glare is enough of an answer. The man meets his gaze, but quickly looks away.

"Those New Yorkers, man…" He trails off, never bothering to finish his thought.

It's an hour or two before anything happens. An hour or two of stiff conversation and gray concrete walls and the occasional shouting match. An officer drops by sooner or later, slotting his key into the jail cell door and swinging it wide open.

"You." The officer points at Sarge, frowning. "You can go."

Sarge shoots a half-glare at his comrades, before standing and exiting the holding cell. He's out of the police station before he knows it, back on the streets of Washington. The sun is beginning to set on the city, though the riot has all but subsided. It rages on, napalm to the buttoned-up officials of the government. He starts walking, half-wondering what happened to his picket sign, when-

" _Hey!_ Hey, you!"

Sarge turns, only to find a young man jogging in his direction. "You-you're the guy who-?" He stops suddenly, an emotion somewhere between wonder and confusion plastered on his face. He holds out his hand, stiffening. "I'm, uh… Fillmore."

Sarge looks him up and down (clean pants, clean jacket, clean everything), suddenly overcome with a feeling of familiarity. "Have we met?"

"Yeah, uh…" Fillmore retracts his hand bashfully, and passes it over his head as though he were going to run it through his hair. "Earlier, out front of the Pentagon, I, uh… I was on duty, and you-"

"No shit," Sarge interrupts. "Seriously?"

"Dead serious, man." Fillmore almost laughs, but covers his mouth. "Sorry, uh-I didn't think that you'd get such a beating just for that, I shouldn't have-"

"Don't worry about it," Sarge replies quickly. "Erm… How did you find me?"

"Oh, uh… I didn't. I just happened to be passing by when you got released."

"That's crazy."

It's quiet for a moment before Fillmore quickly says, "Could I ask your name?"

"Oh shit, sorry," He laughs, suddenly realizing that he never introduced himself. "I'm Sarge."

"Sarge," Fillmore repeats, as though he were testing the name out. "Strange name for someone like you."

"I'd say the same to you," Sarge replies, " _Fillmore."_

"Like the president," Fillmore says. "Not like the, uh…theater."

They fall silent for a moment, though it doesn't feel quite content. There's more to be said, forget about all pretense and social customs. Sarge can't help but feel like they've met before, aside from the riot. Their meeting doesn't feel like chance, coincidence… whatever it's called.

Sarge frowns briefly, catching wind of the chants and the riot. He needed to go back. What had that girl said? _We have a revolution to fight in_ …well, maybe it wasn't quite so extreme, but it sure felt important. "I oughta get back to the Pentagon," Sarge says, "You know, uh… regroup with my folks."

"Wait, hold on a sec-" Fillmore grabs his wrist, but quickly pulled his hand back. "What you said earlier at the riot, if I believed in what I'm fighting for…" He sounds reluctant to answer, but manages: "I don't. I don't believe in any of it."

Sarge watches him for a minute, not fully believing what he said. If he doesn't believe in it, why is he an MP? If he doesn't believe in it, why did he enlist in the first place? He meets Fillmore's eye, and, to his surprise, he's completely serious. "Come with me, back to the riot," Sarge says,"We can stay towards the back so no one sees you-"

"It sounds great, man, but what if-"

"You want to protest, right?" Sarge asks. "So why not fight for what you believe in? Fuck Johnson, fuck Westmoreland… Do what you think is right."

Sarge offers his hand, and Fillmore looks at it indignantly. "Look, man, I can't just-" He sighs frustratedly, and meets Sarge's eye. "You really believe in all that, huh?"

"Yes," Sarge replies. "Don't you?"

Fillmore frowns. "I do, but…" He sighs again, glares at him for a long moment, and finally takes his hand. "Fine."

"That's the spirit!" Sarge grins, pulling him along in the direction of the riot.

"You know," he adds, "I hear they're going to exorcise the pentagon."

Fillmore snorts. "How do they plan to pull that off?"

"Probably some radical pagan magic or something." Sarge clears his throat, and recites, " _The pentagon will rise three hundred feet in the air, shake violently, and subsequently end the war in Vietnam._ "

"Oh, really?"

His mind's eye travels to the hundreds and thousands of picket signs and fists and chants, feels their rage and power… And for a moment, he believes it. "Yeah," he replies, "It's a revolution. Anything can happen."


End file.
